


Legacy

by scarletjedi



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Complete, F/M, M/M, One Shot, What-if Sheriff Stilinski was a Hunter, canon-level violence (not-explicit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Campbell men, family was everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to raving_liberal and proxydialogue for editing this!
> 
> Welcome to my first foray into Teen Wolf. It won't be the last.

When Leslie Michael Stilinski was five, long before he had ever heard of Beacon Hills and Sheriffs were still something from Westerns, his parents died and he went to live with his Uncle Samuel, Aunt Deanna, and his Cousin Mary. He lived with them for several years, and he learned. He learned he was part of a legacy of defense, of a fight against the darkness. He learned to protect your borders with salt. He learned Latin and how to keep records. He learned to shoot a gun, and a rifle, and a crossbow. He could wield a knife and a machete. He learned the _signs._

Les was ten when he spent the night with his Aunt Judith, jittery and sparking with excitement because _tomorrow morning was his first Hunt!_. It was a ghost, a low-energy polter, and he returned, exultant and bruised, to learn that he wouldn’t be going back with Uncle Samuel and Aunt Deanna, that they had died the night before and that his Cousin Mary had disappeared. 

Les stayed with his family, shuttled from this Aunt to that Uncle, learning to Hunt and hating his lack of roots. 

When Les turned eighteen, he and his Cousin Ray left the compound and Hunted ghosts and ghouls and a werewolf. Les had always been a little in awe of werewolves, since he had seen _An American Werewolf in London,_ with some classmates. The werewolves in the film were nothing like _real_ werewolves, and he had spent the movie alternating between scoffing at the fiction and in awe of the special effects. It was all the sweeter because he knew the family wouldn’t approve. (It wouldn’t be until much later that he learned the truth about werewolves: that they weren’t all mindless; that the one they had killed was a rogue Alpha driven crazy by the loss of his pack and biting humans at random; that most lived in Packs that were both highly structured and extremely dangerous. Les didn’t talk about them much, in fear that his cousin Beth would accuse him of romanticism. 

Les was twenty two when he met Lisianthus. (She had grinned at the look he must have had on his face when she gave her name. “But most people call me Lilly,” she had said.) She was—God, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, pale and freckled with eyes like honey. She laughed often, musically, and she spoke with a husky alto that sounded of earth and moss and the scent of early spring rain. 

It wasn’t that Les didn’t know that Lilly wasn’t fully human, that there was something _extra_ about her, it was more that Les _didn’t care._ He had fallen in love. Stilinski men loved hard and loved true. 

For Campbell men, family was everything. 

Les and Ray fought, and Ray left, and Les and Lilly married and settled in Beacon Hills. Les took a job as deputy sheriff, and for the first time that Les could remember, he had a real home. 

At the time, Beacon Hills was overlooked by the Hale family from their mansion in the woods. It didn’t take Les long at all to recognize them as werewolves, even though he’d never seen an actual _Pack_ before, and it took less time to recognize the Argent family as Hunters. 

But Les was done with that life, was done with cow-towing to _tradition_. What kind of legacy was that? It was the kind that killed his family. 

He was done. There was peace. He had his Lilly and salt painted into the windowsills and a working herb garden that Lilly tended like magic, and he was happy. 

Then, one midwinter’s night under a full moon, Lilly said “I want to have a baby.”

Lilly was fond of saying that her darling boy was in just such a hurry to see the world that he had to come early--over a month early. Les was a mess in those early days when his baby boy was in the hospital under glass, but it seemed that he blinked and the baby came home, and Leslie Genim Stilinski, hit the ground running. And talking. And laughing. But mostly just moving.

(Actually, that wasn’t his name either. Lilly had laughed at the idea of naming her son after her husband and Les had agreed. She had, instead, named him something that sounded like music when she said it, and that Les could never quite wrap his lips around. “Leslie” was, however, as close an approximation as he could manage, which Lilly found quite funny. Les was relieved when “Little Les” became “Stiles.”) 

Lilly was never quite the same after the birth. It had been hard on her, and though she never regretted it, she tired more easily and Les would come home to find her sitting in the rocking chair on their back porch, too tired to move, as Stiles ran in circles, or ran circles around Scott, the little asthmatic boy from Stiles’ kindergarten class. 

The teachers started calling the house, concerned about Stiles’ “ability.” After much prompting, and fighting against it with energy she could ill afford, Lilly and Les took Stiles to the doctor and returned with a shiny new diagnosis of ADHD and a prescription for Adderall. Lilly made sure he took it sparingly, preferring to let him run wild when he could. 

Wild was a good word for Lilly. And for Stiles, his little ball of energy. 

When the Hale house burned down, the town was shocked. So much life lost, the town whispered. Those poor kids—because there were only two survivors; (Two real survivors. Peter Hale, burned and in a coma, didn’t really count.) Laura, pale and wide eyed but strong like Mary had been strong, and Les didn’t worry about her, and Derek. Derek had been sixteen and angry and lost, sitting on the edge of feral on the plastic chairs in the station. Les had looked at him, had wondered if he would need to dig the special bullets up from the garden and hunt Derek down, but then Laura had come back from the ladies room, placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder and Derek calmed. Les knew, then, that Derek wouldn’t be a problem. Laura was the Alpha, she would keep her pack of one in line. 

Lilly’s health really turned after the fire. She entered the hospital late in 2008 after years of being a shadow of herself and never left. Les couldn’t remember crying. He couldn’t remember dry eyes. He couldn’t _remember_ anything other than her smile and the way the wildflowers would smell when she braided them into her hair. He remembered enough to hold onto his son as Stiles cried and cried. 

Things were different after that. Stiles spoke more and said less, his wit growing sharp enough to cut and it was all Les could do to thicken his skin, to snipe back to let Stiles knew that _Les was still listening_ and _Daddy’s here for you,_ and _Family is Everything._

Stiles turned fifteen carrying the weight of Lilly on his shoulders, but there was nothing—it _hurt_ too much to—so Les let him, and watched his boy grow up far too quickly; His Little Les, who couldn’t wait to be born, who had been running since the womb, and who Les was afraid would outrun him before he could reach out. 

Stiles turned sixteen, into everything and anything. Les had stopped worrying that Stiles would dig up the bullets, (the herb garden had gone to seed when Lilly passed and it would stay that way), and started to worry that he’d find the journals and books that Les could never bring himself to throw away. That Stiles would get _ideas_. 

Then they found Laura Hale in the woods (not that Les recognized her right away; she had grown and death made everybody different), and Les found Stiles staring down Derek Hale. If Les had to pick a moment when everything changed, it would be then, when he pulled Stiles from the back of the police car and Stiles spoke and for the first time said nothing _to Les._

It hurt, and Les had never missed Lilly more. 

That night, once Stiles was passed out in bed, Les poured himself a shot of whiskey and pulled his journal from the false panel in his desk and read everything he could on werewolves. 

They arrested Derek, who looked older, hairier, but still just the same as he had the last time he’d been at the station and Les knew, he _knew_ Derek didn’t kill Laura, knew Derek wasn’t the Alpha, which meant _someone else was._ Then Chris Argent walked in, speaking about the town watch and Les made himself sit back and observe. Beacon Hills belonged to the Argents, now. He could keep the bullets buried. 

Les tried to keep track of everything. Stiles was hiding things from him, probably that Scott had been bitten. Something was up with Chris’s sister, Kate, something that made Les’s skin twitch, and he stayed as far away as he could. Derek was _always there_ making Les think about his weapons in ways he hadn’t for a long time, especially when he realized Derek was visiting Stiles in the night. 

When Les realized that he was praying that it was a sex thing and not a werewolf thing he again wondered at his priorities in life. 

Kate Argent died. Derek started to rebuild his pack with misfit teenagers. Stiles kept cropping up in the middle of things, and Les just—missed Lilly. Even when Melissa, Scott’s mom, smiled at him and he felt something ease in his chest. 

One morning, Les came home and found that the herb garden had bloomed overnight. Stiles was passed out on his bed, small smile on his face and smelling faintly of ash. He really was his mother’s son. 

Before he knew it, two years had passed since they found Laura Hale in pieces. Chris’s wife died. Peter Hale began appearing around town and Les wondered how blind people could be. Melissa started inviting him over for dinner on nights when Scott and Stiles would disappear and Les pretended that the world of his youth hadn’t come for his son. Stiles began to smell of herbs and blood and wolf and smoke, and he would feed Les vegetables with one hand and raise his blood pressure with the other. 

One night, after his son’s seventeenth birthday, Les went to drop Stiles’s backpack into his room and found a stack of old books, only one in English, and the scent of sex. Les didn’t like to think of the implications of that night. 

Les did buy condoms to leave on Stiles’s bed, just to hear him freak.

Derek started coming around to dinner, or breakfast. Whichever was the communal Stilinski family meal that day, and Les ignored that he had an Alpha werewolf sitting at his table and Derek looked socially awkward but Stiles beamed like it was Christmas everyday. And when Les saw how Derek looked at Stiles when he thought he couldn’t be seen, well, Les decided to keep the silver knife hidden when he gave the “hurt my son I cut off your balls” talk. 

Les came out of retirement two months before Stiles’s eighteenth birthday. It was the summer solstice and a new moon and Stiles had been missing for two days. 

Les grabbed his old leather duffel and his journal, his supply of holy water and put a protection charm around his neck. He put the sawed-off in the bag and his pistol on his hip. He grabbed extra rounds and a trowel to dig up the special ammunition. Silver bullets. Cold iron. Rock salt rounds. The rest of the weapons whet into the bag with whatever else he could think of and he slipped it over his shoulder. He left his Sheriff's badge at home and grabbed his leather jacket and started walking. He couldn’t take the county car, and Stiles’s jeep was in lockup. 

Chris Argent pulled up next to him five minutes from his house. 

“Not a good place for you to be, Sheriff,” Chris called through the open window. 

“I’m not wearing a badge,” Les said. He met Chris’s eyes. “My son is out there.” _He’s all I have left._

“Get in,” Chris said, and popped the door. Les climbed into the truck and started checking his weapons. Chris started talking. 

“I’m not sure this is the best place for you to be,” Chris began. “I understand your desire to find your boy but—are those silver bullets?” 

“Yep,” Les said, pocketing a few and grabbing the next box. “Cold iron, too.” 

Chris was silent for a minute. “You’re a Hunter.” 

“Was,” Les said. “I retired when I met Lilly.” 

“Hunters never retire.” 

Les adjusted the sight on his crossbow, thought about the salt in the paint and the white sigils under the rugs. “No. We never do, do we.” He loaded the weapon and placed it on his lap. “What has my son, Argent?” 

“Rival Pack,” Chris said after a minute. “They waited too long to challenge Derek, his pack’s too strong. So, they went for what they saw was a weak link.” 

Les snorted. There was a baseball bat in his bag that he had found in Stiles’s room that he was pretty sure wasn’t pine, and fresh wolfsbane from Stiles’s garden. “My son’s far from weak.” 

Chris didn’t say anything, and Les was glad. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have hit him if he had disagreed. Or agreed without meaning it. Chris parked in a clearing, and a young woman appeared from the trees. His daughter, Allison. Scott’s girlfriend. She looked surprised to see Les, more surprised to see him so comfortable with a crossbow, but she outlined their plan without hesitating. 

The rival pack had Stiles in the clearing. He was bruised, a little banged up, but whole and pissed. Derek’s pack had them surrounded, but the rival pack was older, more experienced, for all that their numbers were smaller. Derek would go in and challenge the Alpha. While the wolves were focused on the fight, they would take out as many betas as they could and get Stiles out of there. And if they killed the Alpha and sent the rival pack to shambles, well. That would be cake. 

It was a terrible plan. Les knew it was a terrible plan. It was the only plan they had. And when the rival pack’s Betas raced passed them into the clearing ahead, Les held onto his bag as he ran into the fray to find his son. 

“Dad!” Stiles yelped, high and panicked from half-behind a fallen log.

“Son,” Les said. “You’re grounded.” 

Stiles eyes widened with indignation, but then he saw the way Les was holding the bag, saw the outline of the bat, and the indignation turned to panic then wonder. 

“I am grounded,” Stiles said and grabbed the bat. He hesitated, looked at Les, but Les nodded towards the fight.

“Well? Protect your pack,” Les said. Stiles jolted forward, kissed Les’s forehead, and pulled away. With one hand he reached back and pulled his hood up, the hoodie torn and stained but clearly red. He braces his feet and took a deep breath. Les felt _something_ and it felt just like Lilly and Stiles jumped over the log, joining the fray, beating the rival pack back with his Mountain Ash bat. 

Les raised his crossbow. Derek’s pack, Stiles’s friends, were familiar enough. He took aim, and fired on the enemy. 

It didn’t last long. Derek, in full wolf form, tore out the throat of the rival Alpha, and the now Alpha-less pack ran off to lick their wounds and find better territory. 

Derek shifted back most of the way, settling into the in-between state of his Betas, staring at Stiles. 

Stiles met Derek’s stare, back straight and bat dripping blood. He grinned, bright and sudden and _Stiles_ and Derek was a blur and Les had to look away because he didn’t need to see a naked Alpha kiss his son. Not like that. Ever. 

Les helped Chris to his feet, and walked over to the pack. He took off his jacket, then his flannel, and offered the shirt to Derek, when the Alpha pulled away from Les’s son. 

A long moment passed before Derek let Stiles go to take the shirt, tying it around his waist and shifting back fully. It was the signal, and the pack shifted back around him. Les recognised the Betas; Scott, Jackson, Boyd, and Isaac were on the team with Stiles. Erica had been coming over for study sessions for a year. Les had known about Lydia as long as Stiles had known her, and when she walked from the woods holding what looked like a homemade flamethrower, Les was both impressed at her skills, and relieved that she wasn't a wolf. Stiles would need _some_ friends that were still human, and Les knew humans kept packs stable. The other human, Danny, Les didn’t know as well, but he'd been on the team with Stiles for years as well, and had been in his house before for dinner or for movie night or to study. Les turned to Stiles, who fairly exploded: 

“You never told me you were a Hunter!” 

“You never told me you were dating the Alpha,” Les countered, mimicking Stiles’ posture, and Stiles gaped at him until Scott started to laugh. 

“It’s not funny, Scott!” Stiles spun on his friend, but Derek placed a hand on his shoulder.

“This is a conversation we can have somewhere else,” Derek said, and Les nodded. 

“Great idea. Where do you suggest?” Les said. 

Derek looked at Les for a long moment. “The house has been renovated. We’ll meet there.” 

The Alpha was inviting him into the pack’s den. Les nodded. He wouldn’t refuse such an honor. Such an act of trust. 

Les looked away as Derek nuzzled a temporary goodbye to Stiles. It was nothing Les hadn’t seen them do before, but again, naked. The wolves loped off into the woods and Chris led the way back to the truck. 

Stiles didn’t say much, though he was twitching with the need to speak. He held his silence until they had reached the Hale house. He disappeared up the stairs while everyone else, minus Derek, gathered in the kitchen. It was tense until Les started to talk to Scott about school. Slowly, everyone began to relax. 

Stiles burst through the kitchen door, clean and wearing dark clothes too big for him, and beelined for the ‘fridge. Out came the food, some of it in trays into the oven, the rest placed cold on the table, and when Derek entered the kitchen, everyone fell to. 

Les bit into a chicken leg and looked around the room. The Pack of Beacon Hills. 

Stiles began to talk around his food, and for the first time in years, said as much as he spoke. Les countered with the name Campbell, which had Chris hissing in respect, and Lilly’s magic, and in a move he never thought he’d ever do, he handed Stiles his Journal. 

Chris was watching him with wide eyes. He knew how important the Journal was, what Les giving it over meant. 

Stiles missed that subtlety, flipping through it excitedly. When Derek cleared his throat, Stiles blushed and tried to give it back. But Les shook his head. He hadn’t been a Hunter for years. His family was Stiles, had been since Lilly, and Stiles was Pack—had inherited, instead, his mother’s Legacy. 

The Pack would care for Stiles. Les would care for the Pack, and he could do that best as Sheriff—running interference with the law and keeping the Pack out of sight. 

“Keep it. I’m retired.” 

And for the first time, Les really believed he could keep that promise.


End file.
